


Temporal Collisions

by Metal_Ox137



Series: Doctor Who Companions: The Library of Time [1]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-13 23:42:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28536810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Metal_Ox137/pseuds/Metal_Ox137
Summary: Two time-traveling couples intersect on a rainy street in New York City on a cold winter’s night. But they soon discover, nothing about their meeting has happened by chance - and an extraordinary legacy is left for one of The Doctor’s former traveling companions.
Relationships: Amy Pond/Rory Williams, Ashildr | Lady Me/Clara Oswin Oswald
Series: Doctor Who Companions: The Library of Time [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2090514
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	1. Chapter 1

If Amy Pond had learned any one thing as a time traveler, it was this: time was something you did not waste.

Time could be measured. Time could be traversed. Time could be looped, warped, retraced, and, in some exceptional cases, re-written. But, just as glaringly, just as inevitably, time was a finite resource that couldn’t be purchased, borrowed, or even stolen - like some incontrovertible law of physics, time stolen was _always_ taken back, with interest - everyone was granted just so much, and never more. Time could be a gift, but gifts were rare; there was no more precious substance in all of the universe than time.

Time could be spent, indeed, all time was inevitably spent, and when her time traveling days were over, Amy Pond had quietly vowed to herself that whatever time remained to her, she would spend as wisely as possible. 

She hadn’t planned on becoming a writer as a career. Nor had she foreseen it. She was always writing and drawing, even as a very young child. She enjoyed the activity. But it was always a dalliance, a pastime; she never envisioned it as her life’s work. 

Amy’s first novel was one she hadn’t written. She had read it to herself aloud, understanding it to be someone else’s work. She didn’t know yet she was the collaborative past and future author. Even when she learned the truth, and wrote out the full manuscript from her daughter’s outline and collected notes, she did so not in delight or joy, but from a sense of obligation; this act was a fulfillment of a chain of events already committed before she had consented to them. It was the one work not published under her own name, save, of course, for a brief afterword dedicated to an old friend. Amy did take some comfort from the fact that what she had written would eventually save the lives of herself, her husband, her daughter, and one of the closest friends she would ever have in her adult life - and for that, she chose to be content.

And then, to her surprise, she kept on writing. 

To her greater surprise, Amy found modest success as an author. Her work sold steadily if unspectacularly at first. But each new story seemed to find a wider and more appreciative audience. Certainly, Amy’s sense and appreciation for the craft of writing steadily improved, but it was more than that. As she began to draw more on her personal experiences, the quality of what she wrote was markedly better; and as she gained confidence, she began to draw on those experiences more and more. She never wrote an autobiography. Everything she wrote was under the guise of fiction. But what Amy Pond knew, more than most, is that _all_ stories are true, as real as her writing desk or her favorite pen, and many of the best stories revealed themselves to be little more than sublimated memories of actual events.

Save for that first novel, she always published under her married name, Amelia Williams. You can still find copies of her novels and collections of her short stories in any bookstore or library in the English-speaking world. 

What is probably less well known about Amy Pond is that when she was not busy writing, she and her husband were usually busy killing malevolent alien life forms known colloquially around the galaxy as “The Weeping Angels”. 

The Weeping Angels were a true abomination when it came to time. They took the appearance as statues of seraphim, and literally lived off stolen moments from other creatures’ lives - preferably, taken from a sentient creature that would understand and mourn that loss. Their entire existence was predicated on stealing time that wasn’t theirs to take - and on simple, abject cruelty. They were monsters, in the strictest and most proper sense of the word.

Amy and her husband had been displaced in time by these monsters. And she made it her private life’s work to find and destroy as many of them as possible. 

* * *

New York City in 1928 had a decidedly hedonistic tinge to it. Prohibition had been enacted, but the speakeasys were doing brisk business. Jazz was becoming a sought after entertainment, and not just in illicit circles. Prosperity seemed to touch everyone, everywhere. Across the continent, the city of Los Angeles, California was practically exploding with growth, one day to rival even New York City as the Great Metropolis of America - and it also contained within its environs the burgeoning industry of motion pictures, soon to become a staple of entertainment around the world. Across the sea, at St. Mary’s hospital in London, Alexander Fleming discovered penicillin, which would become a pivotal game-changer in the treatment of diseases and infections. But at the moment, New York City was the new cosmopolitan center of the civilized world. Everyone wanted to go there. It was a heady time to be alive. 

Everyone seemed oblivious of the impending economic collapse, save for Amelia and Rory Williams, a young couple “just arrived” in Manhattan from the considerably less well known hinterlands of Scotland, via the New York City of 2011. Despite having foreknowledge of future events, they chose not to profiteer using that knowledge. They did, however, purchase a modest brownstone walk-up for themselves in a quiet neighborhood, one that would remain more or less undisturbed by the cataclysmic economic and martial events that would come to dominate the coming decades. 

They had discussed relocating, of course. But having already been displaced in time, violently, it seemed simpler - and less traumatic - to “bloom where they were planted”, as Amy’s aunt Sharon was fond of saying. So they settled in New York, Rory taking a medical degree at the local college, and beginning his career as a doctor, while Amy took to her writing desk. They lived quietly and unobtrusively. No one, save their daughter, who visited them frequently, had any idea that this young couple were also saving the boroughs of New York from alien menaces on an almost nightly basis. 

* * *

It was the first Saturday night in November, and it was seasonably wet and cold. Amy didn’t notice the weather. She had dressed for “demon hunting” in clothing that was suitably anachronistic for the time period: a form-hugging, insulated bodysuit made of some dark synthetic material, along with boots and a lightweight body armor designed to protect her not only from projectiles like bullets, but also resistant to chronon and plasma energies, and a sword - a short, light blade similar to a katana, fashioned not only from tempered steel but also capable of emitting a charge of pure plasma energy, strong enough to cut through almost any substance, including the dense living stone of a Weeping Angel. The combat suit had been presented to Amy as a gift from her time-traveling daughter. Only Amy’s head remained uncovered, and she had drawn back her long, flame-red hair into a tight ponytail. The suit came with a helmet, but Amy never used it - she wanted nothing obstructing her vision when she hunted. 

Rory often followed along, usually a few paces behind, serving as both backup and lookout. Unlike his wife, he dressed for the period, usually wearing a long coat over a dark suit, with a fedora or some other hat appropriate to the time. Amy rarely needed any help on their nightly vigils. She knew what she was hunting, and she was merciless in stalking and eliminating her prey. Rory’s job consisted largely of making sure their hunts remained unobserved.

Tonight, however, Amy’s hand-held scanner was picking up more than the usual levels of chronon activity. She scowled as she examined the readout. 

“There’s more than just an angel out there tonight,” she murmured, passing the scanner to Rory so he could see. He frowned in puzzlement. 

“Could be another time traveler,” he surmised. “It’s not the same displacement pattern we usually see with the angels.”

“Yeah, but it’s massive,” Amy objected. “It’s not just one person. It’s a ship. It has to be.”

“A ship. You mean, a time-ship.”

“Look at that readout, Rory. Whatever it is, the displacement is almost off the scale. And it’s close. Maybe no more than a few blocks from here.”

“It’s probably just tourists,” Rory guessed. “Everybody loves New York. Especially this time period.”

“Even so, we know there’s an angel out there tonight, and a time-traveler is an ‘all you can eat’ buffet to their kind.”

“So, we find them and warn them.”

“Let’s see what they are first,” Amy cautioned. “It could be Daleks... or something worse.”

“There’s something worse than Daleks?” Rory asked half-jokingly.

“Time Lords,” Amy answered, and she wasn’t joking at all. 

They agreed to approach the intersection with the largest displacement from opposite directions. It never hurt to have an alternate line of sight when hunting an angel. 

As Rory came up to the intersection, he could see two women on the sidewalk, walking towards him. They were on the opposite side of both the intersection and the street. Rory knew instantly they were time travelers. It was late enough in the evening for most general passerby to be off the streets, but it was their clothing that was a dead giveaway. Neither was wearing anything remotely appropriate to the time period. Both wore dark leather jackets, as well as boots and black insulated leggings made of synthetic fabric that hadn’t been invented yet. The smaller of the two women was carrying a sword in a sheath at her hip, a short blade that appeared from this distance to be a cutlass.

The smaller woman was so tiny, Rory had taken her at first to be a child. She was easily shorter than five feet in height, and even underneath her clothing, it was obvious she was slender of frame. She appeared to be quite young, maybe just in her twenties, with copper-gold hair, just this side of light brown, which had been delicately and ornately braided. She walked apprehensively, pausing every few steps to turn slightly, and take in her immediate surroundings. She was someone who was apparently used to being ambushed.

The taller woman appeared to be slightly older, but not yet thirty; she had jet-black hair, which was coiffed in a style common in 2010, but eye-catchingly unusual for the 1920s. Rory noted she was also armed: she had a sidearm in a holster, and it wasn’t any sort of gun ever seen on Earth. She appeared to be nervous and apprehensive as well. While they weren’t necessarily hostile, it was evident they were expecting trouble. It would be wise to approach them both with extreme caution. Rory decided he was far enough away to signal Amy without raising an alarm. He touched his communication earpiece. 

“I’ve got two women in sight, both armed,” he said quietly. “They’re definitely not local. One’s got a gun of some kind, the other’s carrying a sword.”

“A sword?” Amy’s voice sounded amused over the com link. “You don’t see that every day, even in New York.”

“You carry a sword, sweetheart,” he reminded her. “They look spooked. I’m almost in their line of sight. You want them to spot me?”

“Are you far enough away to avoid becoming lunch meat?”

“Trust the plastic,” Rory sighed. 

“All right, let them see you,” Amy agreed. “Let me know how they react. I have no line of sight on them yet.”

“Yeah, I know. You’ll probably bump into each other at the corner. I’m moving into their line of sight... now.”

By this time, Rory had mastered the fine art of nonchalant movement. He knew exactly how to walk, or smile, or stand, to present himself in a non-threatening manner. As he came into view, the two women froze, as he expected they might. The smaller one put her hand on her hilt, and the taller one turned inward just slightly, ready to protect her companion. Rory smiled disarmingly, and pulled at the brim of his hat, to project a simple acknowledgement of passerby. He didn’t break stride, and kept walking with deliberate pace up the sidewalk, towards the intersection. After a tense moment of indecision, the two women straightened up with obvious relief, and continued on their way as well. 

“They’re definitely jumpy,” Rory reported softly into his communicator. “But they didn’t draw weapons, and they’re checking targets. You might want me to take first contact on this one.”

“What, you don’t think I can be charming with alien visitors?”

“I’m thinking a fully charged plasma sword _might_ give them the wrong impression.”

“There is that,” Amy conceded. 

“Hang back a minute,” Rory suggested. “They look like they might bolt if approached.”

“Watch yourself, centurion,” Amy warned.

“I always do,” Rory assured her. “I’m leaving my com link open.”

It happened, as it always did, in the blink of an eye. Rory had turned away only for a fraction of a second to talk to Amy - and as he turned back, he caught sight of the angel, reaching out for the smaller woman from behind her back. She gasped, and crumpled to the pavement as if she’d been shot. The angel, held transfixed by Rory’s view, was rooted to the spot. Without looking, Rory launched himself into the center of the intersection - which thankfully at that hour had no vehicular traffic - and pelted at a dead run towards the angel and its intended victims.

“Angel!” He yelled into his communicator. “We have an angel! One victim down!”

Before he could reach the sidewalk, however, Rory felt himself being halted. And he wasn’t being held back in any conventional sense, as if someone had grabbed his coat sleeve or his arm. No, this was a temporal displacement of some kind. He was frozen where he stood in mid-stride, as immobile as a witnessed angel.

An astonishingly beautiful young woman, with dark brown hair, and wearing an outfit made entirely of white, stepped in front of him.

“Forgive me, Rory Williams,” she said with a disarming smile. “But these two, you must leave with me.”


	2. Chapter 2

If Ashildr, daughter of Ionhar, had learned any one thing about traveling through time, it was this: time was a prison from which she could never escape. 

Her own situation was, of course, singular and unique. The general lot of humanity suffered a fate arguably darker and even less comforting than Ashildr’s own: in the words of Hobbes, life was nasty, brutish and short. Ashildr could easily attach the word “joyless” to that definition to give it further clarity. 

For centuries, everyone around Ashildr lived some twenty or thirty years, and most of that time was spent in some hellish state between drudging misery and unendurable agony. And then, they all died. In less than thirty years, Ashildr was the oldest woman in her settlement. She looked as if she was seventeen years old. Five years later, the entire settlement burned in a fire; the few people she still knew were scattered to the winds, never to be seen or heard from again. 

Ashildr began to wander the world, afraid not that she might die, but that she never would. Everywhere she went, there was plague, sickness and death. At first, she tried to live and love, despite the suffering all around her. She outlived all of her husbands. And then, she outlived all of her children. Individual people were sometimes kind, but life itself was intolerably cruel. 

Because she could not die, Ashildr began a relentless march through endless days, passing through a life she didn’t know how to live. She took from her experiences two lessons. The first was to bear no more children, for the heartbreak of losing them was a fate worse than death itself. The second was that if she ever again had the misfortune to meet another Time Lord, she would kill him, or her, on the spot. 

There were beings, she knew, who were not Gods, but acted with the impunity of Gods. When she was barely sixteen, her village was culled by a race called “The Mire”. She knew little of them, but what little she knew told her that people like herself existed only to be harvested by creatures like these.

There was another being, not of Ashildr’s world, who looked like an old man, and who spoke contemptuously to nearly everyone he met, and he seemed to treat the culling as if it were some sort of game. That “man” helped drive the Mire away. And after Ashildr had died, and she _had_ died, he used some dark magic she didn’t understand to bring her back to life. That was as unnatural and blasphemous an act as she was capable of comprehending. Whatever else life may be, it had its cycle, and then it ended. Everything and everyone had a season. Everyone, that is, save Ashildr herself. Whatever else the old magician had done, he had apparently cursed her with never-ending life. 

The magician had a companion, a young woman with dark hair, searching eyes and an always comforting smile. She seemed almost human by comparison with the Time Lord, and in the early days of her wanderings, Ashildr had idly wondered, what kind of a woman would intentionally keep companion with a demon such as The Doctor?

It turned out, the kind of woman who would later become Ashildr’s own wife, and soulmate throughout a large part of her immortal life. 

* * *

It was Ashildr who suggested to Clara that it was finally time to stop. The two of them had by now spent three centuries together. The first hundred years had been a giddy, and largely destructive, time. They had acquired a TARDIS, and, as both of them were for all practical purposes immortal, they decided to see as much of the universe as they could. They were not friends, then; barely even acquaintances. But with nothing and no one to set constraints upon them, they went where they pleased, and largely did more harm than good, not out of malice, but from sheer ignorance and willful stupidity. The lessons they learned in that time were harsh ones indeed.

The next hundred years were more bittersweet. Clara and Ashildr had grown quite close, and fond of each other. They traveled less. They confined their trips to select parts of Earth, in a relatively small subset of time periods, mostly where they could settle, live as part of a community for some ten or twenty years, and then set off again. The first time Ashildr proposed marriage, Clara refused. She loved Ashildr, but could not see herself marrying anyone, ever again. It was nearly forty years later before Ashildr brought up the subject again, and this time, she dangled the option of adopting a child as well. Clara happily said yes to both proposals. They married, adopted a daughter when the girl was only an infant, and raised her together. They settled in the early 20th century, in a small town of what was then Northern California. Their daughter graduated from high school, moved to Los Angeles to attend college, and was killed by a drunk driver less than a month later. 

Surprisingly, the tragedy did not shatter the relationship between the two women. But their bond was tested as it never had been before. Ashildr always knew, that unless their child was somehow made immortal like themselves, a day of parting would surely come. She helped Clara cope with an intolerable grief she remembered only too well. Somehow, they got through it; but they never again adopted another child, choosing instead to support those charities and organizations that tried to find homes for abandoned or orphaned children - for in any age, in any country, there were no shortage of lost children, left to the vagaries of the world. In all the universe, only the humans of Earth willfully abandoned their own young. No other sentient species in the galaxy would even contemplate such a horrific thing. 

Now well into their third century, both Clara and Ashildr were beginning to feel the “mileage” of their unnaturally long lives. Ashildr’s Mire tech still functioned, but no longer as quickly or as efficaciously as it had before. Clara still had only her one heartbeat left, but she too was beginning to feel a pervasive sense of weariness that couldn’t be shaken off. They had both lived too long. It was time to rest. 

The Time Lords, Ashildr knew, were well versed in anything to do with death; she had no doubt if they returned the TARDIS to Gallifrey, they could both be executed on the spot - and there could be no doubt as to the Gallifreyans’ willingness and ability to do just that. Ashildr suggested this one night to Clara, almost timidly; to Ashildr’s great surprise, Clara seized upon the idea right away. There really was only one roadblock for them both. Neither was willing to part with the other. They had become joined in a way that few couples ever could be - forged together through centuries of shared experiences. If there was any sort of afterlife awaiting them, they wished only to enter that together. If not... it was only left for each of them to say “farewell” to the other. And the thought of that final farewell seemed to be a negation of all they had shared together over the course of their lifetimes. They were both ready to pass from this life, but could only do so if holding the other’s hand.


	3. Chapter 3

It had all happened in the blink of an eye. 

One moment, Clara Oswald was walking down a rain-slicked sidewalk somewhere in New York City, her wife Ashildr at her side. The next moment, Ashildr had collapsed, and some strange, ghastly apparition made of stone was standing beside them, one arm outstretched, a long, preternatural finger extended from its claw-like hand, a bestial snarl frozen on its face. Two other figures, reassuringly human, were racing towards her from opposite directions - one, a male, dressed in fairly nondescript twentieth-century clothes, the other, a female wearing some sort of black combat suit and brandishing a weapon that Clara was reasonably sure was a plasma blade of some kind. They, too, had been frozen in mid-step; Clara glanced down at the figure at her feet. The only person she cared about right now was Ashildr. She knelt beside her, pulling her close, turning her face upwards. 

Ashildr’s eyes were closed, and her skin was cold and clammy to the touch. Worse, she had some sort of strange mottling on her skin, as if all the veins in her body had instantly caramelized. But despite her terrifying appearance, she appeared to still be breathing normally.

“Ashildr? Ashildr, can you hear me?”

“I doubt she can,” said a female voice. “She’s been touched by a Weeping Angel. Yet she hasn’t been displaced in time. Extraordinary.”

Clara looked up to see her long-time pursuer, the Time Lady Romana, coming up to her. Without hesitation, Clara cradled her stricken companion in one arm and drew the gun from her holster, the safety off. 

“Stay back,” she snarled, brandishing the weapon. “This is an Artron pulse cannon on the highest setting. You even _think_ of freezing me, you’re dead.”

Romana halted in mid-step, but she didn’t retreat. There was the faintest trace of an inexpressibly sad smile on her lips.

“You’re running out of time, Clara,” she said quietly. “You can’t keep running forever.”

“Want to bet?”

“You’re just prolonging Ashildr’s suffering. And your own.”

“That’s not true,” Clara retorted angrily. Her grip on the pistol was decidedly shaky.

“It is. And you know it.”

“I said, stay _back,”_ Clara growled as Romana attempted to take another step closer. “I’m not The Doctor. I _will_ use this on you.”

“I believe you.”

“Look. Take the ship. Strand us both here, I don’t care. But you can’t have _her._ You can’t.” Tears welled in Clara’s eyes. “We’re not ready yet. _I’m_ not ready.”

“Clara, you’ve run out of options. If you don’t come with me now, the Time Lords will simply send someone else. And whoever they send will kill you where you stand.”

“Let them try. I can send a lot of you to Hell before that happens.”

“Gallifreyans don’t believe in any sort of Hell, Clara. That’s a uniquely human construct.” She sighed. “Look. I’ve tried to give you as much time together as I could. But that time is over now. I can still make sure that you and Ashildr are together at the end. You’ll get no such promise from anyone else.”

“I can’t leave her. You know that.”

“I know.” Romana actually knelt down, even though she was several steps away, so that she and Clara were at a more equitable eyeline. “I also know nothing I say will change your mind. Certainly there’s nothing I can say that will ever change hers.” She nodded towards Ashildr. “So I brought you to some people whose voices you might hear.”

“So, you did force our TARDIS down,” Clara said. “I knew it.”

“I was supposed to have brought you in some time ago,” Romana pointed out. “Maybe that was a mistake. Maybe I was just prolonging your agony.”

“Maybe you were,” Clara agreed angrily. 

“You can’t save her, Clara. You can’t protect her. You can’t even save yourself. The only thing you can do now is be with Ashildr at the end. That’s all.”

“Go to Hell.”

“I can give you until the morning. After that, it’s out of my hands.” Wearily, she stood up. “I’ll be waiting. Whenever you’re ready, just call my name. I will hear you and I can be at your side in seconds. I’m so sorry, Clara. I wish I could change what’s going to happen. But I can’t. I _will_ do everything I can, to help you.”

“Murdering my wife isn’t helping me. Murdering me isn’t helping, either.”

“It’s not murder, Clara. It’s euthanasia.” Romana began to turn away. “I’ll see you in the morning,” she promised. “One way or the other.”

And then she vanished.

The moment she did, the two human figures who had been frozen were restored to normal time and came running up to her. The man, who was much closer, saw that she was now armed; he didn’t stop running towards her, but he slowed down and held up his hands. 

“Whoa, whoa,” he said placatingly. “We saw that you’re in trouble. We only want to help.”

A few seconds later, Amy arrived, sword drawn. “Drop the gun,” she ordered.

Clara remained where she was, shaking uncontrollably with fear and rage. 

“Look. My wife just wants to take care of that nasty statue thingie behind you,” Rory pleaded. “Please. Put the weapon down. I’m a doctor. I might be able to help your friend.”

With great misgiving, Clara lowered her arm. 

With a shriek, Amy practically leapt past Clara, and swung her plasma blade in a wide arc, separating the head and the outstretched arm of the angel from its body. The head and the arm fell to the concrete, cracking into pieces on impact.

Rory knelt beside Clara and Ashildr. 

“Good God,” he murmured. “I’ve never seen anyone resist a time displacement before.” He quickly checked Ashildr’s vitals. “I don’t know how, but she’s still breathing. We need to get her back to the house,” he said to Amy. 

Amy, after confirming her kill, stood in front of Clara, sword still drawn. She held out her free hand. 

“Gun. Now,” she ordered.

Clara hesitated.

“You can give me that gun, or I’ll cut your damn arm off and take it myself,” Amy said. 

Clara exhaled raggedly. She powered the weapon down, and locked the safety. Then she handed the weapon to Amy, handgrip facing her. Amy took it.

“Hmf. Artron cannon,” she noted. _“Very_ nasty. You’re definitely not from around here.”

“I was born in Blackpool,” Clara answered in a leaden voice. “Will be,” she corrected herself.

“That’s too bad. Now, I’ll really have to hate you.”

Clara made no reply. Despair was flooding her heart now, and she sat where she was, utterly broken and beaten. 

“Come back to the house with us,” Rory coaxed gently. “You won’t find another doctor in New York in 1928 who knows anything about Weeping Angels. Or one who took part of his medical training in 2010.”

“Rory!” Amy scolded. 

“She’s a time traveler, Amy, just like us. No point in keeping it secret.” He turned back to Clara. “Please, come with us. Maybe we can help.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Clara nodded. The last of her adrenaline gone, she had no strength or energy to resist anyone. 

A few minutes later, Clara found herself in the downstairs sitting room of the Williams’ home. Rory laid Ashildr across the couch, and hurried away to fetch his medical equipment. He returned a few moments later, and quickly began pulling equipment from bags and running diagnostics. 

“Most of this stuff wasn’t around in 1920,” he allowed, a little sheepishly. “Which is good news for your friend, actually.”

“Will she live?” Amy asked.

Rory nodded, but he seemed utterly perplexed. “Yeah. Near as I can tell, all her vitals are fine. The mottling on her skin is receding. She doesn’t appear to be in a coma. I could try waking her, but frankly, she’d be better off if we let her wake on her own.”

“Okay, then.” Amy took out the Artron cannon, and turned to Clara. “How do you disarm this thing?”

“May I?” Clara held out her hand. 

After a moment, Amy handed the weapon back. Clara unlatched a small handle on the underside of the handgrip, and took out what looked like a battery pack.

“The gun is disarmed now,” she assured her. “I’m really very sorry about earlier. I won’t threaten you again.”

Without warning, Amy swung a closed fist, and connected hard with the side of Clara’s face. With a moan, Clara went down in a heap. 

Amy stood over her, seething with rage. 

“Damn right you won’t,” she muttered angrily. 

She stepped over Clara, and turned back to Rory. “I’m going to bed,” she announced. “Be sure to take the trash out before you come upstairs.”

Her contemptuous glance included the two women. 

Rory tilted his head briefly towards Ashildr. “I think... I’d better keep an eye on her,” he said quietly. “Just in case.”

Amy gave him a hard stare. “Whatever,” was all she said, then she turned and headed up the stairs. 

Rory sighed deeply. Amy wasn’t wrong to be angry, upset or even suspicious. He also knew she hadn’t made more of an argument because he was a doctor, and there was a badly injured woman laying across their couch who needed his help. He looked down at Clara. She hadn’t moved from when Amy had hit her, and she was softly crying. Rory knelt down beside her.

“Come on,” he murmured in a gentle, coaxing voice. “Let me see.”

He helped Clara sit up slowly. There was an ugly gash over her left eyebrow, and the eye was already bruising and swelling shut. 

“Ouch. She really nailed you, didn’t she,” Rory sighed. “You might even have a slight fracture of the orbital bone.”

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Clara mumbled. “If I can get back to my ship... there’s a med-bay inside. It can heal pretty much anything.”

“Must be a nice ship,” Rory muttered.

“Oh, it is.”

“How far is it?” Rory asked. 

“Not far. Just a few blocks from here.”

“Will your crew be looking for you?”

“No crew,” Clara answered weakly. “Just me and Ashildr.”

Rory glanced at the woman on his couch. “And she’s Ashildr,” he guessed. “She’s your mate? I mean, your crewmate.”

“She’s my wife.”

“Ahh, well, I’m Rory. Rory Williams,” Rory introduced himself. “And that charming Scotswoman who just decked you, that’s my wife, Amy.”

“Clara Oswald. Pleased to meet you, Rory.”

“But not so pleased to meet Amy,” Rory grinned. “I get that. She’s all right, really. Once she gets to know you, it’ll be fine. Amy can get a little... intense... when we’re hunting angels.”

“What did that thing do to her?” Clara tilted her head towards Ashildr.

“It was trying to displace her in time. That’s how the angels feed. They send you back into the past, and literally live off your stolen moments from the present. Why it didn’t work on Ashildr, I have no idea.” 

“Have a seat in the chair, there,” Rory decided aloud, getting up. “I can treat your eye, cover it with a bandage, at least until you can get back to your... ship.”

“Thank you,” Clara said brokenly. 

A few minutes later, Rory had stitched up the gash over Clara’s eye, given her something for the swelling, and bandaged the wound as carefully as he could. He then examined Ashildr, and to his astonishment saw her wounds healing rapidly - almost in front of his eyes. 

Rory brought over one of the upholstered chairs next to the couch, so that Clara could sit next to Ashildr. She settled into the chair with a soft moan, obviously exhausted and hurting. Rory went into the kitchen for a moment, and returned with a mug of tea and offered it to Clara. She took it gratefully. 

“Thank you.”

“So, who was she?” Rory asked, sitting in the chair across from her. “That woman in white.”

“You _saw_ her?”

“She called out to me. By name. And no, I’ve never seen her before. And then, she just vanished, like she was never there. I’m going to go out on a limb here and say... Time Lord?”

“That obvious, huh?” Clara managed the faintest smile. “Ahh. I suppose you could say, she’s the sheriff who’s been sent here to arrest me.”

“You’re on the run, then.”

Clara hesitated for a moment. There wasn’t much point in lying. “Yes,” she admitted.

Rory simply gave her an expectant look, and after a moment, Clara elaborated somewhat. “I stole something. Something that didn’t belong to me. Something important, something very valuable.”

“What, like, precious stones, jewelry, something like that?”

“More like... stealing a car.” Clara sighed. “Only it’s not really a car. It’s a ship. A ship that can travel through time and space.” She paused, and regarded the young man thoughtfully. “You don’t think I’m lying.”

“No. I don’t.”

“Interesting.” Clara took a sip of her tea. “Most people would scoff. Or burst out laughing. But not you.”

She frowned, which actually made her grimace, as the expression pained her injured eye. “Amy and Rory... I _know_ I’ve heard those names before. Amy and Rory... you’re not, like, famous, are you?”

Rory shrugged. “Not that I know of. My wife’s an author. But unless you read novels, you probably wouldn’t know who she is.”

“Does she publish under own name?”

“Under her married name,” Rory nodded. “Amelia Williams.”

“Amelia Williams...” Clara repeated the name slowly, thinking hard. Then her face lit up. “Amy and Rory Williams!” she exclaimed. “Oh, my God! You’re _them!_ You’re the Ponds!”

Rory’s mouth fell open. Generally, there was only ever one person who referred to Rory and his wife as ‘The Ponds’.

“You traveled with The Doctor!” Clara said delightedly.

Rory saw no reason to deny Clara’s guess. “You know The Doctor?”

“I traveled with him, too. For a time. Just as you did. He talked about you guys, like, all the time.”

Rory frowned. There was something about this young woman that was jarringly familiar. “You’ve never been to the Dalek home world, by any chance?” He ventured. “Or one of their colonies, or outposts?”

 _“I_ haven’t, no. But I understand one of my other selves has.” She smiled almost sympathetically at Rory’s baffled expression. “Please don’t ask me to explain that. I can’t. And I don’t understand it any more than you do. I’m not The Doctor. I can’t just come up with some weird, loopy, spacey explanation off the top of my head.”

 _“You’re_ not a Time Lord... are you?”

“No. I’m as human as you are.”

“Ahh, I’m part Auton, actually.”

“Oh!” Clara exclaimed in surprise. “Well... you _seem_ quite human.”

“Thanks. I try.” Rory decided to venture another question. “This ship of yours... it wouldn’t happen to be... a TARDIS... would it?”

“It would,” Clara admitted. 

“You can fly a TARDIS,” Rory marveled.

“Well... it took me a while, to get the hang of it,” Clara allowed with a smile. “But, yeah.”

Clara visibly relaxed. Being in the company of one of The Doctor’s traveling companions obviously meant safe harbor. 

“I am so, so sorry I pulled a gun on you earlier,” she apologized. She gingerly patted her cheek, just below her bruised eye. “Really sorry, actually.”

“So, this woman who’s after you... what’s her story?” Rory was still trying to fit all the pieces together. 

Clara nodded, and then instantly regretted it; the movement made her head hurt terribly. “Her name is Romana. She was charged with collecting the TARDIS I stole, and then returning me to Gallifrey for execution.”

Rory seemed shocked. “The Time Lords would kill you for stealing a TARDIS?”

“No. They want to kill me because I’m already dead.” Clara sighed. “I’m going to explain this terribly, I know. I’m a temporal anomaly. I actually died in the year 2017. Or, I will die. Whatever. Forget the tenses. The Doctor rescued me, just a split-second before I died. Please don’t ask me to elaborate. It would take too long, and I’d just make a hash of it. Basically, I’m sort of frozen in time. If you felt my wrist for a pulse, you wouldn’t find one. I have one heartbeat left. When my heart beats for that final time, then I die, and that’s it.”

“And you ran away, because...”

“Well, mostly because I wasn’t ready to die,” Clara admitted. 

Rory mulled that over. “I guess I can’t blame you,” he decided at last. “I mean... nobody _wants_ to die, do they?”

“Romana has been deliberately derelict in her duties. She’s not really concerned about collecting the TARDIS. We haven’t been that naughty with it, all things considered. But Romana knows the moment I’m returned to Gallifrey, I’m dead. She also knows I’m in love with Ashildr. Romana’s allowed me this stolen time, so I can stay with my wife a little longer. She’s trying to be kind. But she is going to have to bring me in, eventually.”

“And how long have you been running?”

“About three centuries.”

Rory wasn’t sure he’d heard right. “Three... centuries,” he repeated uncertainly.

“More or less. Yeah.”

“Does that mean Ashildr...”

“She’s human, too,” Clara assured him. “She was born in a small Viking village several centuries ago. In an area that’s part of what we now call ‘Iceland’. When she was a young woman, The Doctor placed a piece of alien technology in her body. He was trying to save her life. But now, thanks to him, she’s virtually immortal. As long as that technology continues to function, it will keep her alive, and in good health. That technology has limits, though. As you can see,” she sighed sadly. 

“So that’s what’s speeding her recovery. And that’s probably why the angel couldn’t displace her. Some alien medical tech,” Rory marveled. “So, as long we let that tech do its work, she’ll make a full recovery?”

“Given time, yes, I think so. But Ashildr and I both have the same problem. Human bodies simply aren’t designed to last for centuries. We’ve both been around far longer than any normal lifetime. And we _feel_ that. For a long time now, we’ve been trying to decide if it’s time to stop running, and give ourselves up. I think the only reason we haven’t is, neither of us can bear to live without the other.”

“Can’t the Time Lords do anything for you?”

“No. As far as they’re concerned, I’m just a criminal, and Ashildr is a sort of hybrid monster The Doctor created, something they’d rather sweep under the rug. We’re not Gallifreyans. We have no rights under their laws. And our continued existence is... problematic. Besides, Ashildr and I... we are very close to the end. We both know it. I guess all we’re really trying to do is find a good ending to go out on. Together.”

She sighed. “I’m sorry. It’s really hard to explain all this. Living for hundreds or even thousands of years...”

“Oh, I understand,” Rory assured her. “I’ve been around since Roman times, myself. And by that I mean, Ancient Rome.”

Clara grinned. “Oh, so you’re a member of the millennial club too, are you?”

“Oh, yeah,” Rory chuckled ruefully. “Dues paid, sealed and delivered. I suppose like most things involving The Doctor, I’m not sure it’s even worth trying to explain.” His expression grew more serious. “But I do know what it’s like, to have several lifetimes stretched out in front of you... or behind you.” He sighed. “I guess the only thing I really need to know is, how can Amy and I help you.”

Clara smiled gratefully. “You’re very kind. Thank you.” She thought for a moment. “I guess... in the morning, if Ashildr is able to travel, you can help us get back to our TARDIS. Then, as long as Romana hasn’t towed it, or something, we can at least get out of your hair.”

“And if Romana has confiscated your ship?”

Clara sighed. “Then we’ll have to do like The Doctor does. Improvise.” She gave Rory a grateful smile. “Please, go upstairs to your wife. I promise, I won’t make any trouble for you.”

“We have a spare bed, if you’d rather that.”

“Thank you, no. I’ll stay here. I want to see Ashildr, when she wakes. If you’ve got a spare blanket, though, that’d be great.”

Rory left the room and returned a few moments later with an extra pillow and two blankets. He laid one blanket carefully over Ashildr, then brought over an ottoman to create a makeshift bed for Clara.

“Thank you,” Clara sighed, settling back in the chair and already half-asleep. 

“If you get into any trouble tonight, just yell, okay?” Rory said. “I’m just right upstairs. I can be down here in a couple of seconds.”

“I’m hoping we all have a quiet night,” Clara declared.

“That would be nice,” Rory agreed. “All right, then. Sleep well, Clara. We’ll see you in the morning, and we’ll do whatever we can to help you get everything sorted.”

“Thank you, Rory. Goodnight.”

Rory left one lamp at the far end of the room lit on its lowest setting, then turned out all the other lights and headed up the stairs. Clara was asleep before his footfalls reached the top of the landing.


	4. Chapter 4

Despite the fact she’d spent the night asleep in a chair instead of a bed, Clara awoke the next morning feeling quite refreshed. Only a slight ache over her injured eye remained from her horrible day. She pushed herself up on one elbow to peek over the chair arm. Ashildr was sleeping soundly, having rolled on her side sometime during the night. She looked fully recovered, and Clara sighed with relief. Not even a Weeping Angel could mess with her Indestructible Girl. 

As her body kick-started itself back to consciousness, Clara became aware of wonderful smells wafting in from the kitchen, and her stomach began to growl impatiently. Slowly, she sat up, rubbed her face carefully to avoid the wound over her eye, then stood up. Ashildr stirred slightly but didn’t wake. Clara offered up another silent prayer of thanksgiving for her wife’s safety and well-being, then tottered off in the direction of the kitchen. Rory was standing over the stove, hard at work making breakfast.

“Something smells great in here,” Clara said, coming into the kitchen. 

Rory looked up and a wide grin spread across his face. “Hey, how are you feeling? Did you sleep?”

“I slept like a rock,” Clara admitted. 

“Give me just a second. I want to take a look at your eye.”

“You’re making us breakfast?”

“It’s just bangers and mash. And coffee,” Rory answered. “On the off chance that this really is a Day of Reckoning for you, the very least I can do is offer you some comfort food before it all starts.”

“Thank you. You’re very kind.”

Rory turned the heat down on the frypan. “Have a seat,” he said, nodding towards the kitchen table. Clara took a chair, and Rory carefully wiped his hands on a clean towel before coming over to inspect the dressing on Clara’s cut.

He frowned in disapproval. “Well, that’s properly nasty,” he decided. “I’ll clean that up again, right after breakfast. Amy will be down in a minute, and she’s bringing you something that will help.”

Clara grimaced. “Not another punch in the face, I hope.”

“No more face punching,” Rory vowed. “I promise.”

“Oh. That’s all right, then.” Clara’s body was now properly awake, and signaling other, more urgent needs. “Uhm... where’s the, uhh...”

Rory smiled knowingly. “Down the hallway, next to the stairwell,” he told her. “First door on your left.”

“Thanks. Be right back.”

Clara found the tiny bathroom, and once her body had gone through its normal morning cycle of voiding, she decided to brave a look in the mirror. The wound wasn’t as bad as she thought, but it was definitely ugly. There was still noticeable swelling and discoloration all around the eye. She decided not to lift the bandage. Rory would be changing it in a few minutes anyway. She found a washcloth, dampened it with warm water, and patted her face with it. A few moments later, her birdbath complete, she returned to the living room. 

Ashildr was stirring on the couch, but Clara knew her lover’s morning patterns as intimately as her own. It would still be a few minutes before she was properly awake. She knelt down beside the couch, and kissed Ashildr’s cheek.

“It’s okay,” she whispered softly. “We’re with friends. We’re safe.”

Reassured at the sound of Clara’s voice, Ashildr drifted back into a light sleep. Clara smiled. One of the simplest and greatest joys of her life was watching Ashildr as she slept. Clara realized if there was an afterlife, this was one of the memories she wished to take with her. Not some big event, not any adrenaline-surging memories from her many travels or adventures - just a quiet moment watching Ashildr asleep. 

Clara returned to the kitchen and took a seat at the table. Rory brought over a large mug of coffee. “Breakfast is almost ready. In case Ashildr isn’t awake, I can save a warm plate for her.”

“I can’t thank you enough for all you’ve done,” Clara said gratefully. 

“Hey, we’re all traveling companions of The Doctor, right? We should stick together. If we weren’t scattered throughout all time and space, I’d say we should form a club.”

“We should at that,” Clara laughed. 

Amy came into the kitchen, fully dressed, and Clara tried not to flinch at the sight of her. Amy smiled disarmingly.

“My husband tells me I’ve been just a wee bit Scottish for our guests,” she announced. “And he’s probably right. Relax, Blackpool. Flag of truce. I’ve brought you a peace offering.”

She held out her hand. In her palm was something the size and shape of a small stone, but was wrapped in a gauze-like cloth.

“What is it?” Clara asked. 

“It’s a poultice,” Amy explained. “For your eye. My daughter brings these back for me from a hospital gift shop on New New Earth. I’ve got a whole sock drawer full of them. This stuff works great for cuts, scrapes or... black eyes.” She grimaced. “Wow, I really got you good,” she admitted. “Sorry. But this will make you feel better, I promise. Just press it gently against your eye for about two minutes. You’ll feel like a new woman.”

“Oh, yeah, those things are great,” Rory added, as he started lining up plates on the counter. “Medicine centuries in advance of our own. I swear they’re magic.”

Clara took the poultice, and gingerly pressed it to her eye. She could feel its healing warmth almost immediately.

“That’s incredible,” she said, with a little gasp of amazement. “I can actually _feel_ it working.”

There was a moment of quiet while Amy made herself a mug of tea, and Rory started doling portions of food onto the warmed plates. Clara sat at the table, staring out the window at what was evidently a small garden at the back of the house. Despite the season, the window was decorated with any number of flowering plants, some of which, Clara realized, were probably not native to Earth. 

After a few moments, Clara removed the poultice. The throbbing on the side of her head was completely gone, and her eye now opened all the way. “That’s incredible,” she marveled.

Amy frowned as she stared into Clara’s face, inspecting it carefully. “Oh, that’s better,” she decided at last.

Just before Rory was ready to serve breakfast, Ashildr came into the kitchen, squinting and scowling at them all through sleep-swollen eyes, like some sort of grumpy owl. Clara got up out of her chair, hugged her close, leaving butterfly kisses all over her face. 

“Hey, how are you feeling?” she asked.

“Stroppy,” Ashildr declared sourly. “Hungry.” She sniffed herself discreetly. “And I need a bath.”

“Well, let’s get some warm food in you first,” Clara said. “This is Amy, and this is Rory. They rescued us last night. They used to travel with The Doctor.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Ashildr apologized automatically. She took a seat at the table next to Clara, grimacing slightly. “What did we need rescuing from? I feel like something gave me a proper whack on the back of the head.”

“Something did,” Amy assured her. “A Weeping Angel.”

“What’s a Weeping Angel?”

“An incredibly nasty alien life form. Don’t worry, I hacked it into little pieces. It won’t trouble you again.”

“Oh. Well... thanks, I guess.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“All right, ladies,” Rory announced, “Breakfast is served.”

They all sat down to breakfast together, and Clara noted with relief that Ashildr had a good appetite. She attacked her plate with gusto, and by the time breakfast was finished a few minutes later, she seemed to be much more like her old self.

During the meal, Clara compared notes with Amy and Rory, and soon they worked out that Clara had begun traveling with The Doctor, practically within days after he’d been separated from the Ponds. 

“I thought I knew you from somewhere!” Amy exclaimed. “I recognize your voice. You’re Soufflé Girl!”

“Well, _I_ wasn’t,” Clara demurred. “But I’ve been told there were many different aspects of me floating about the universe, and yeah, it’s likely you guys met one of them.”

“How did you deal with being... fractured... like that?” Amy asked, not unkindly, but out of genuine curiosity. 

Clara shrugged. “I have no awareness of my other selves at all,” she said. “They might as well be different people, for all I know of them. I’m just one Clara of many. And The Doctor never really explained why there were multiples of me. I’m sure he had something to do with it. I just don’t know what.” She paused. “I do get glimpses, now and then,” she admitted. “Like fragments of old memories. But nothing that coheres into anything I can make any sense of.” She smiled, to dismiss the thought. “I’m just trying to stay grateful for this one life I _do_ know about. I’ve been very blessed. I not only got to travel with The Doctor, I got to travel with Ashildr. I’ve had lifetimes more than most people get. I have no reason to be anything but thankful.”

“That’s a good way to look at it,” Rory agreed. 

“So, what do you want to do now?” Amy asked. “If what this Time Lady says is true, she’s got to take you into custody this morning.”

“Yeah,” Clara sighed heavily. “I guess we’ll clean ourselves up, then re-trace our steps back to the TARDIS. If it’s still there, then... I don’t know.”

“You could make a run for it,” Rory suggested.

Clara shrugged. “We’ve been running. For centuries. And at this point, we both rather feel like we’ve been run to ground.”

She glanced at Ashildr, and her soulmate gave her a warm smile. 

“Neither of us wants to die. But... we are ready to stop. And if we’re going to do that, then... it’s time we accept the consequences of that.”

“Would you mind some company?” Rory asked. 

Clara gave them all a grateful smile. “We’d like that very much.”

At the risk of abusing their hosts’ patience, Clara and Ashildr shared a long shower together after breakfast, although most of that time was spent simply holding each other as the warm water spilled down their bodies. Clara found it remarkable. They had lived for centuries. They were both exhausted beyond any normal human endurance. And yet the instinct for self-preservation remained as strong as ever, the desire to draw one more breath after the next... the need to hold her lover close, to feel her heart beat, one more time. One final time. 

As they were getting dressed, Clara took Ashildr’s hands in her own. 

“I have only one regret in all of this,” she said quietly. “I should have married you, the first time you asked me. I wish I’d had the courage to accept then. I know it probably wouldn’t have changed anything... still. I love you, Ashildr. Whatever happens today, know that I love you. And I always will.”

Ashildr pulled Clara close. “I regret nothing,” she murmured. “Even the bits when we didn’t like each other very much. It was all worth it. You saved me, Clara. You found my heart, and you gave it back to me. You did for me something no one else could. You made eternity bearable. For long as I’m capable of remembering... I love you,” Ashildr echoed Clara’s words back to her. “And I always will.”

A short time later, the two couples set out together. The skies had cleared, and though the air was cold, the sun was warm. Clara and Ashildr walked together unhurriedly, holding hands, keeping perfect pace with each other, the synchronization of their steps perfected after centuries of walking side by side. Amy and Rory followed a few paces behind, also holding hands. Everyone was lost in private thoughts known only to themselves. 

At length, they arrived and Clara sighed with relief. The TARDIS hadn’t moved. 

“Hey,” Amy exclaimed, “I recognize that diner. That’s really your TARDIS?”

“Yeah,” Clara grinned. “We tried to repair the chameleon circuit once. But in the end, we kept the diner shell because, well... we just liked it.”

Clara took out her key and opened the door. She held it open. “Please come in.”

As they entered the console room, however, they found they had a visitor. Romana was standing at the controls, adjusting a few knobs. She looked up at them and smiled as they entered. 

“Good morning,” she greeted them all. “I think it’s well past time we had a nice, long talk.”


	5. Chapter 5

“What are you doing in MY TARDIS?” Clara exclaimed indignantly.

“It’s _my_ TARDIS,” Ashildr corrected her.

“This TARDIS doesn’t belong to either of you,” Romana said with equanimity. “The Doctor stole it. And _you_ stole it from him. And while we’re on the subject, TARDISes are not property. They are sentient beings, and they have rights.”

“Is this the Time Lady?” Amy asked. “I thought she’d be taller.”

“Hello,” Romana gave them all a shy wave. “I’m Romanadvoratrelundar. No. Don’t bother trying to swallow all that. Just ‘Romana’ will do. Or Fred. I also answer to Fred.”

She flipped another switch on the console with a flourish. “There. This TARDIS is now pre-programmed to make one flight, and one flight only,” she announced. “Back to Gallifrey. Press any button, throw any lever, and the flight begins. Your traveling days are over, Clara. It’s time to return you where you belong.”

“She belongs with me,” Ashildr declared angrily. 

To Ashildr’s surprise, Romana nodded in agreement. “Yes. Yes, she does. Clara belongs with you. And we need to discuss that.”

She gestured to a nearby room. “We’ve never had a chance to meet properly, and talk. I’m afraid this is going to be our only opportunity. Shall we sit in the library?”

They all filed into the room. There were two couches and two two straight-backed chairs arranged in a rough semi-circle. Around them, on every wall surrounding them, were shelves and shelves of books - lined all the way to the ceiling - every one of them a hand bound volume. 

“This is your library?” Amy asked, intrigued.

“This is my past,” Ashildr answered. “Every book you see here is one of my diaries. I started keeping a written record about thirty years after I realized I wasn’t ever going to die.”

“You wrote every book in this room?” Amy gaped with astonishment. “But... there must be thousands of volumes here.”

“To be fair, I’ve had well over a thousand years to write them,” Ashildr pointed out. 

“You really have a diary stretching back over a thousand years.”

“Please,” Romana remonstrated gently. “We have a great deal to discuss, and not much time. Won’t you please sit down?”

Everyone took a seat, the couples on the couches, and Romana settled herself in one of the chairs.

“Amy, Rory, this doesn’t directly concern you, but I’m going to ask you to stay,” Romana began. “In a short time, I have to take these two back to Gallifrey. I want there to be witnesses to everything that happens next - and by that I mean, people who are not mouthpieces of the Gallifreyan government. Someone who is able to contradict any official version of events, should that version prove to be... inaccurate.”

“Clara said she’s going to be executed,” Rory said quietly. “Is that true?”

“Strictly speaking, no,” Romana answered. “But, she is going to be returned - against her will - to the moment of her death. Her borrowed life is over. And there’s nothing I can do about that. Like a Weeping Angel in reverse, I have given to her all the stolen moments I could.”

She turned to Ashildr. “Ashildr, you are not under any sentence, you are free to go, if that’s what you wish,” she said. “But I just assume you want to stay with Clara, no matter what happens.”

“Yes, I do,” Ashildr nodded.

“Then let me be absolutely clear. A few minutes from now, I am taking you both back to Gallifrey. You are going to die today. I can’t change that. But, if you make your last wishes known to me, I can advocate for you. I can ensure your instructions regarding your deaths are carried out.”

“You can’t just condemn them to die,” Rory protested.

“Rory, please, I need you - _all_ of you - to understand. This isn’t an execution. Clara has already died. Her death is an established historical fact. And even Ashildr, although she will live much longer than anyone else on your planet, is not immortal. One day, her Mire tech will fail, and she will begin to age and eventually die, just like everyone else. I can prevent none of that. But - I do have one last appeal I can make. But before I make it, I wanted to discuss it with you first.”

“What sort of appeal?” Clara asked.

“You have both indicated that you’re ready to stop running, but you don’t want to be separated from each other. In fact, you’ve wanted to stop for some time now. You just couldn’t bring yourselves to do it.”

Clara and Ashildr looked at each other. “This is true,” Ashildr admitted.

“What if I told you there was an alternative?”

“An alternative to dying?”

“For all practical purposes, your bodies are already dead, and have been for some time. No, I’m speaking now of your consciousness - your spirit, if you like.”

“Please go on,” Clara said, intrigued.

“Clara, you’re aware that the Time Lords have a vast living computer known as the Matrix.”

Clara shuddered. “Yeah. I’ve been there.”

“Actually, you haven’t. You’ve only ever been inside the firewall - a distinctly nasty place, as I’m sure you’ll agree. No, the Matrix proper is an entirely different reality. Inside, the consciousness of several thousand members of my people have been successfully uploaded - they ‘live’, in a manner of speaking, in a world that has been created just for them.”

“Are you saying _we_ can be uploaded to the Matrix?” Ashildr asked.

“I’m saying, it’s possible to transfer your consciousness there. Doing so would allow you to continue to stay together, unfettered by your decaying physical forms. There is one hitch. I have to convince the High Council that it is in the best interests of everyone to allow this upload to take place. Normally, uploads are reserved for the most elite of our society. But there have been exceptions made. If you think this is something you’re interested in, then I can advocate for you to be one of the exceptions. Alternatively, if that does not appeal, you’re free to roll the dice on any delusions of an afterlife foisted upon you by your respective cultures.”

“You don’t believe in heaven?” Amy asked, frowning. “Or hell?”

“What I believe, or don’t believe, is immaterial here,” Romana answered. “All I need is to know the final wishes of these two people. Then I will attempt to carry out their wishes to the best of my abilities.”

“If we agree, what happens to us? Our memories?” Clara asked.

“Your consciousness will be uploaded, as I’ve said, but it wouldn’t be possible for you to interact with the other minds there,” Romana said. “In effect, we’d have to build a custom-made ‘heaven’ for you - a sealed sub-matrix where your spirits can reside and function until you reach a point of terminal brain death. Time, as you understand it, will have no meaning there. A hour, a minute, a day, a year - they are all the same, really. There would be no linear passage of time as you comprehend it. You simply exist in the same moment for all eternity. You just need to pick your moment.”

Clara and Ashildr looked at each other. “The lake house,” they said in perfect unison. 

Romana laughed. “Well, that was easy.”

“There was a lake house, in Switzerland, near Geneva - back in the 1830s, I think,” Clara elaborated. “Ashildr and I spent four or five summers there, and it was at a point in our lives when we had decided we were never going to leave each other. We’d been lovers long before then, but that was when we decided we were going to be married to each other in the traditional sense - for as long as we both shall live. It’s our happiest shared memory.”

“Good. Then what I need the two of you to do is meditate on that time, find your most vivid, most complete memory of that moment, so we can reconstruct it as closely as possible within the Matrix.”

“You can _do_ that?” Amy gaped in astonishment. “Build them their own private heaven?”

“Rassilon once had his own scale replica of the Taj Mahal inside the Matrix,” Romana grinned. “Not to mention a sealed sub-matrix he used as his own private chambers. I think a house by a lake is pretty ‘doable’.”

“I seem to remember, there was an inordinate amount of snogging going on back then,” Clara mused wistfully.

“And then there was that time on the dock,” Ashildr reminded her with a knowing smile. 

“Oh, God, the dock,” Clara exclaimed, and she blushed scarlet at the memory. “Well... maybe there won’t be witnesses this time.”

“You said you would have to convince the High Council to accept them being uploaded,” Rory said to Romana. “How likely is that?”

Romana sighed. “I’ve learned long ago it’s pointless appealing to the better nature of my people. Getting them to accede to the well-being of others never works, because they’re only ever interested in themselves. No, I plan to scare them into accepting this plan.”

“Scare them?” Ashildr frowned in puzzlement. “How?”

“By convincing them that the two of you are the fabled ‘Hybrid’ of legend - two entities taken from warrior races, that left unchecked, would eventually leave Gallifrey a smoking ruin. I plan to tell them the only way to avoid that fate is to wall you both up in a segregated ‘prison’ space inside the Matrix. I believe I can lay it on thick enough to convince them - if you’ll allow me to publicly traduce your characters before the council, that is.”

“We don’t mind being the bad girls,” Clara assured her. “A lot of the time, we _were_ the bad girls, if we’re being perfectly honest.”

“Oh, I have many real-life examples I can cite for them, never fear,” Romana said. “But please, don’t dwell on those. As you say, it’s history. For now, I need the two of you to start concentrating on returning to that perfect moment in your lives, and think of nothing else. You need to leave the rest to me - and to Amy and Rory.”

“There is one other thing,” Ashildr requested. 

“Certainly, what is it?”

“My diaries.” Ashildr turned to Amy. “I know we’ve only just met, and I’ve no right to ask this of you, but... in these books is not just my entire life. It’s also Clara’s life, and the life of The Doctor. He’s in almost every volume. I suppose I could just let it all be burnt - but... I want there to be some sort of record. Some account of the life I’ve led with Clara. I want the world to know how much I loved her. And how her love saved me. Would you mind, if I left these with you? Would you be the curator of our personal history?”

Amy floundered for an answer. “You want me to publish... all _this?”_

Ashildr laughed. “God, no. Not all of it. Perhaps... just edited highlights. Anything you decide might be worth sharing with the rest of the world.”

“Can I just point out, she got _very_ explicit detailing our sex lives,” Clara winced with embarrassment. “Maybe you could skip over most of that.”

“Why?” Ashildr exclaimed. “That’s been a very important part of both our lives.”

“True, but the whole world doesn’t need a blow-by-blow description, do they?”

“I still can’t believe how prudish you can be sometimes,” Ashildr teased. “Aren’t you the one always telling me, you’re not big on dignity?”

“Okay, then, maybe just leave out the bits involving Jane Austen,” Clara suggested. “She still has a decent reputation. I’d hate to ruin it.”

“Jane was one of the bad girls, was she?” Amy grinned.

“The world has _no_ idea,” Clara assured her. “It can be our secret.”

“All right, then, I accept,” Amy agreed. “I’ll do my best to present you to the world... hopefully, just as you are, the good and the bad. I have to warn you, though. My own personal bias will be to find those instances when you were kind.”

“That’s fine. As long as everyone knows we made mistakes, too. We’re human. We screwed things up. A lot.”

“Welcome to the human race,” Amy declared with a laugh.

Romana stood up, and regarded them all with a tolerating smile. 

“All right, if that’s all settled, then let’s get the two of you ready to share eternity together,” she said to Clara and Ashildr.


	6. Chapter 6

“Are you okay with this? I mean, really, okay with this?”

Amy Pond had pleaded with the Time Lords to be allowed to visit Clara in the private antechamber where she was awaiting her upload. After much hemming and hawing, they finally acquiesced. Amy found Clara dressed in a simple white gown with a gold braid, essentially a funerary shroud. She was sitting on a divan in the center of the mostly bare room. 

“I need you to look me in the eye and tell me you’re okay with this,” Amy insisted, pacing the room in great agitation.

“Amy, I’m really okay with this. And you can ask Ashildr, too. She’ll say the same.”

“But they’re going to _kill_ you,” Amy groaned. 

“Amy, I’m already dead. I told you. I died on a trap street in London in 2017. And from my perspective, that was a little over three hundred years ago. All the Time Lords are doing is returning my body to that time and place. They were under no obligation to preserve my consciousness. But they’re going to.”

“I just don’t see how you can... give up like this.”

“Amy...”

“If I can still take a breath, then I _take_ it,” Amy said fiercely. “I’m Scottish. I’m going to fight for every breath, every last one. And if somebody says I can’t, I don’t care who they are, I’m kicking that fucker in the balls. Nobody tells me when and where I die. _Nobody.”_

“And for the first hundred and fifty years, I felt exactly the same way,” Clara assured her. “But Amy, for me, that was a hundred and fifty years ago. A lot happens in three hundred years. You can compress an entire lifetime into thirty seconds. Believe me, I know. I’ve done it.”

“So, that’s it. You’re just gonna lay down and die. I expected better from you, Blackpool.”

“Amy, sit with me,” Clara said quietly. “Please.”

With a heavy sigh, Amy sat on the divan next to Clara. 

“I _died,_ Amy. I was there. I _felt_ it happen. But it’s over. It’s a past event. There’s nothing left for me to be brave about. I outlived my own death. This isn’t some evil plot, or a trap, or anything of the sort. Romana is being as kind as she knows how to be. I get to end my life in Ashildr’s arms. I can’t ask for anything better.”

“It just doesn’t seem right,” Amy moaned softly.

“Let me ask you something. Did you count the volumes in Ashildr’s library?”

“I did. There’s 1,167 books in there.”

“Any how many pages are in each of those volumes, do you think?”

“I glanced through a few of them. If they’re all the same length, then, somewhere between 350 and 400 pages in each one.”

“Okay. So, at a rough estimate, let’s just say, a half million pages. I first met Ashildr when she was barely sixteen, and I’m a little fuzzy on the date, but I’m pretty sure the year was somewhere around 967 AD. I didn’t meet Ashildr again until the year I died, 2017. She lived nearly a full thousand years before she started traveling with me. A thousand years, Amy. By any measure you want to take, that’s a _really_ long time. And she wasn’t time traveling. She lived every single one of those days, one day at a time, one after the other.”

Clara sighed. “When The Doctor hooked Ashildr up to the Mire tech, he was just trying to save her life. He knew there was a risk that her life might be prolonged. But the alternative was to let her die. He was trying, as best he could, to be kind. But... when he rescued _me...”_ Clara swallowed hard. “He didn’t do that out of kindness. That was him being selfish. He thought he couldn’t live without me, which, of course, was complete rubbish.”

“Was it, though?” Amy asked pointedly.

“Well, of course it was. He’s still out there, somewhere, saving the universe, probably another whole entourage of companions at his side. The point I’m trying to make is, Ashildr and I were making exactly the same mistake he made. We were continuing to steal time for ourselves, out of selfishness. We wanted to stay together forever. The Time Lords are giving us that, or the closest thing possible to it. But we certainly don’t deserve that, and the time we stole has to be paid back somewhere. You’re a time traveler. You must understand this.”

“I suppose I do,” Amy said reluctantly. 

“A thing doesn’t have to last forever to be valuable. Our lives matter precisely because we _don’t_ get to hold onto them. The Doctor told me once, he needed to travel with people like us, the mayflies, because we could still see what he no longer could. We understand how precious that gift of life is. I’ll bet he gave you the same speech at some point.”

Amy chuckled. “Yeah, he did,” she admitted. 

“I had a daughter. Did you know that? And I lost her. She was crossing a road near her college dorm room, and some drunken frat boy hit her with his car. She was just barely eighteen. And I never came closer to losing myself so completely, as the day I lost my child. Ashildr lost all her children early in her life, and she never really recovered from that. Even today, all these hundreds of years later, that wound has never healed for her. And neither has mine.”

Clara exhaled sharply. “I guess all I’m trying to say is, you have a husband, you have a daughter, and one day, you’ll have to say ‘good bye’ to them - or they will to you. So live every day knowing that. I don’t mean, live in dread, but live in thankfulness, in joy. Your life is a gift, Amy. Live it that way. Every single day. And yes, when the time comes, kick any fucker who tells you differently in the balls.”

They both laughed, and then Amy impulsively hugged Clara. “I really wish I’d met you sooner,” she said brokenly. “You’re all right, Blackpool.”

”You’re pretty okay yourself... Leadworth.”

”I’m really sorry I punched you in the face.”

“Hey, I’m sorry I pulled a gun on you. I’m not making that mistake again, believe me.”

”Hell of a way to meet, wasn’t it?”

“We got to meet, though, and that’s our gift, our private gift between us,” Clara said. “We’ve shared a temporal collision. Romana wanted us to meet, because she thought there was something we could give each other. The Doctor has had so many companions over the years. And so very few of them have ever met one another. I’m so glad I got to meet you and Rory. You are such amazing people. And... I think you already know this, but... The Doctor loves you. More than I think he’s ever loved anyone. You guys really have been like family to him. Don’t assume you’ll never see him again.” She paused. “I want you to promise me something.”

“What is it?”

“When you leave here today, don’t remember seeing our bodies on a slab. Remember that Ashildr and I are sitting at a lake house somewhere in Switzerland, drinking wine and getting ready to make love, not just to have sex, but as an exchange of vows to stay together for the rest of our lives. It’s a beautiful place and time for us to be. And never assume that you and I won’t meet again, either. We’re time travelers. And we live in a universe where anything can and does happen. Who knows, maybe one day Ashildr and I will show up on your doorstep, demanding to share a glass of wine with you.”

”I think I’d like that,” said Amy Pond.

Clara leaned forward to whisper in Amy’s ear. 

“And by the way, the one with Jane Austen is in the sixth volume from left on the third shelf up, on the wall closest to the library door,” she whispered. “Keep that one to yourself. Our little secret.”

And at that, Amy couldn’t do anything but burst into peals of helpless laughter.


	7. Chapter 7

At length, the hour for transference arrived. Clara and Ashildr were sitting together in the anteroom, holding hands. 

“Ready to spend all eternity at the lake house?” Clara asked, trying to keep her tone cheerful. 

She was forcing her disposition, but it was understandable in the circumstances.

Ashildr smiled. “Actually, I’m thinking of that one Sunday afternoon, when we had that little apartment in Brighton,” she admitted. “Do you remember? We were just lounging around in our jammies all day and you told me, quite crossly, to stop staring at your ass.”

“I wasn’t cross,” Clara objected. 

“You were,” Ashildr insisted. “And then we had that _deeeeep_ discussion about, when you’re with someone for a long time, what they actually look like just sort of recedes into the background, and all you see is them.”

“I do remember the conversation,” Clara said. “But I wasn’t cross.”

“I told you how glamorous you always were, even when you weren’t wearing makeup, or even if you went to bed with your makeup still on, and then got up the next morning with all that stuff smeared all over your face.”

“Yeah... I did that way more often than I ever should have,” Clara admitted. “And you told me you thought you always looked like a half-drowned rat, and, yes, I was cross with you then, because you are beautiful, Ashildr. Genuinely beautiful. Always have been. Always will be.”

Ashildr smiled. “I was remembering that moment, because that’s when I understood, you never looked at me the way most people do. They look at the surface, and then decide whether you’re pretty or not. But when _you_ look at me... you just see _me._ You always have. But that was when I first realized it. And I knew right then I wanted to marry you. It just took me another ten years to work up the courage to ask you.”

“And I should have said, yes,” Clara said contritely. “That’s my only regret in all of this. When you asked me, I should have married you then and there.”

“It worked out,” Ashildr told her. “We still got married eventually. And all the time I’ve spent with you, I regret none of it. I think I was always in love with you. But I’m looking forward to going back to the lake house with you - even if it is just a memory. I was on such an emotional high at that time. I kept thinking, I am the most blessed woman who has ever lived, because Clara Oswald wants to spend all eternity with me. I couldn’t believe how fortunate I was.”

“I was feeling the exact same way about you,” Clara reminded her.

“It’s funny, isn’t it,” Ashildr sighed. “We’ve lived so long. Done more things than I can even remember. But some things just stick in your head, and they never leave you. And it’s never the big moments. It’s always something small, even insignificant. Like staring at your ass on a rainy Sunday afternoon.”

“For me, it’s watching you sleep,” Clara admitted. 

“And I only thought that was creepy for, like, the first sixty years or so,” Ashildr grinned. “After that, I just said, ‘whatever’. It’s fine.” She paused. “I love you, Clara Oswald.”

“I love you, Ashildr,” Clara answered. “With all my heart.”

They shared a long, lingering kiss. 

The door to the transference chamber opened. The medical technician, a young, attractive woman in a long, flowing gown looked in. 

“It’s time,” she said simply. 

Clara looked at Ashildr, and took in a sharp breath. “Ready?”

Ashildr nodded. “Ready.”

They got up, still holding hands, and walked into the transference chamber. 

A long, wide bed had been placed in the middle of the room. There was another technician standing to one side, watching what appeared to be some sort of medical monitor. One side of the room was paned with thick glass, although Clara could only see her reflection in it. 

The technician nodded in answer to Clara’s unspoken question. “Your friends are watching, on the other side of the glass.”

“Can they see us?” Clara asked. “Can they hear us?”

“Yes. They’re not allowed in the transference area, because we have to keep it sterile. But please, say to them whatever you like. They’ll hear you.”

Clara stood in front of the glass and crossed her hands over her heart.

“Thank you, for keeping vigil for us,” she said, trying to keep her voice from shaking. “Romana, if you’re there, thank you, for all the stolen moments. Those meant more to Ashildr and me than we could ever tell you.”

Behind the glass, a huge tear rolled down Romana’s cheek. 

“Amy, remember what I said,” Clara continued. “Don’t be sad, or angry. We are choosing this. We are not being coerced. It’s actually a relief, that it’s ending, that we can finally stop running. We can rest now. But... keep that bottle of wine handy. You never know when you might need it. And when you meet our old friend again - and I’ve no doubt you will - tell him...” Clara paused, thinking. “Tell him, run. Run, you clever boy. And remember us.”

Ashildr came up to the glass beside Clara. 

“Amy, our story doesn’t end here,” she added. “As long as our story is told, our lives go on. Let the world know how we lived... and that way, we go on living too. Thank you for being the caretaker of our story. I know you’ll tell it right.”

Behind the glass, Amy buried her head in Rory’s chest, and began to sob.

The technician waited for a moment, to be sure Clara and Ashildr had finished with whatever they wished to say. “Ladies, we need you to recline on the bed, please.”

“Spoon me?” Ashildr asked Clara. 

“Always,” Clara answered. 

They crawled onto the bed, and Clara pulled Ashildr close, draping one arm protectively over her.

“Just relax,” the technician told them. “You’ll feel a momentary disorientation, but no pain. You may even think you’ve fallen asleep. Then, when you ‘wake’, you’ll be inside the Matrix, inside the memory that you’ve chosen. It will only take a few moments.”

“I love you,” Clara whispered in Ashidr’s ear.

“I love you,” Ashildr whispered back. 

Inside the observation room, Amy turned to Romana, a look of absolute horror on her face. “You can’t,” she pleaded. “You can’t let them do this.”

“I can’t prevent it, Amy,” Romana shook her head sadly. 

“Of course you can. Give them a TARDIS. Let them fly away.”

“They don’t want to fly away. They want to rest.”

A technician came into the room, stepped over to Romana and hurriedly whispered something in her ear. She nodded to him. “Thank you.”

Amy buried her face in Rory’s chest again. “I canna watch this,” she sobbed.

The process of transference itself wasn’t anything visible. Clara and Ashildr simply lay together on the bed, while the two technicians in the transference chamber busied themselves at two workstations positioned on either side of the bed. After a moment, they looked up expectantly.

“It’s done,” Romana said quietly. 

A view screen was opened above the window into the transference chamber. Rory wasn’t inclined to pay attention to it; he was staring at the two lifeless bodies on the bed. But Romana touched his shoulder and nodded that he should look. 

The screen showed a beautiful lake, surrounded by dense, verdant forest. The sky was grey and a gentle drizzle was falling, leaving a loop of concentric circles slowly spreading outwards on the surface of the mostly still water. The camera or probe - whatever it was - began a slow pan to the closest shore, and after a few moments, a modest house with a wide porch came into view, only a few feet from the shore, next to a long, pyloned dock stretching far out into the water. 

As Rory watched, the picture dissolved to an interior shot, evidently the living room that overlooked the lake. There was a fire roaring in the stone fireplace, and laying on a rug a few feet away, Clara and Ashildr cuddled together, both naked and both oblivious to anything save themselves. 

“Amy.” Rory gave his wife a gentle hug. “Look.”

Amy did look, at the comforting image on the screen, but she also looked at the two bodies laying across the bed in the transference chamber. A cold, silent rage ignited behind her eyes. 

“I want to go now,” she said simply. 

* * * 

Amy wasn’t sure how much time passed before she returned home. There was the brief return trip to Earth in the TARDIS that Clara and Ashildr had used, with Romana at the controls. Not a word was spoken the entire time. An inconsolable Amy sat curled up in a ball in the stairwell, nursing her anger in silence. 

When they arrived back in front of the Williams’ home, Romana spent several minutes separating Ashildr’s library from the rest of the ship, using the configuration override controls on the console. 

“I realize you probably don’t have space in your home for all Ashildr’s books,” she explained. “So I’m creating a miniature environment for you. Like the TARDIS, it’s bigger inside. You just need a space wide enough for a doorframe, and then you can enter the library anywhere from there.” 

She handed them two small, squat devices, with a simple red button on the top. One was slightly taller than the other. “This first control is simply an interface that opens and closes the door to the library. I’ve installed a similar control inside the library itself, so there’s no chance of either of you accidentally getting trapped inside. The second control is a translator. Most of Ashildr’s diaries weren’t written in English. She wrote with a combination of ancient Viking and Icelandic language for the first several centuries. She added some French and Italian later on. It’s only the last century or so that her books are written in English. This device will let you automatically read any of her texts in contemporary English, and of course, if you want to see the original text, just turn the device off.”

A few minutes later, everything was installed in Rory and Amy’s home, and Romana was getting ready to leave. Amy caught her hand. When she spoke, her voice was too quiet, as if to keep herself from screaming.

“I understand you were only trying to help. But I need _you_ to understand something.”

“Certainly,” Romana nodded gravely. 

“I never want to see you, or any of your people, ever again,” Amy said. “You think you can play God. You’re wrong. From this day forth, if I meet any of your people here, on my planet, I will treat them the same way I treat the Weeping Angels. I will kill them, on sight. Without hesitation or mercy. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Romana answered. “I understand.”

“Take this message to your people. You are not welcome on Earth. Not now, not ever. I’m going to make sure everyone on this whole damn planet knows about you, and make sure they know that the Time Lords are a threat to all human civilization. Your presence will not be tolerated. Any Time Lord who comes here, dies here. Am I making myself clear?”

“You are.”

“Now get off my planet,” Amy hissed. “And never come back.”

Romana nodded sadly.

“One last thing,” she said, fishing into her pocket and taking out a small jeweler’s box. 

“I don’t want any of your gadgets,” Amy said curtly. 

“It’s not from me. It’s from Clara,” Romana said. “She wanted you to have this. You might need it one day.”

With great misgiving, Amy finally took the box from Romana’s hand. 

“I’m so very sorry, Amy,” Romana sighed. “If I could have changed anything, anything at all, believe me, I would.”

“I don’t care,” Amy answered. “Please leave now.”

Romana nodded sadly, and then she turned and nodded to Rory, as well. The young man seemed more inclined to be forgiving, but he was no less upset by all that had happened. Romana re-entered the TARDIS, closed the door, and a few seconds later, the loud rhythmic “whoosh” of the engines signaled that the ship was departing. A moment later, it was gone, vanished from sight. 

Amy turned and re-entered her home without a word.

* * * 

Weeks passed.

Amy brooded about the house, no longer showing outrage, but neither did she resume any of her normal activities. She didn’t write. She didn’t hunt. She didn’t turn over the ground in the garden for the winter. She did take a few of Ashildr’s volumes from the library, listlessly glanced through a few of pages, then left them on her writing desk, where they remained undisturbed. 

Rory understood his wife well enough that she was trying to process everything she’d witnessed, as so he didn’t crowd her; he simply offered moral support. After some time, though, Amy seemed to need a slight push. 

“Do you want to talk about this?” he asked finally. “Because it really seems like you need to talk about this.”

Amy forced herself to smile at her husband. “I _do_ want to talk about this,” she agreed. “But... not yet.”

“When, then?”

Amy sighed. “When I can start thinking about it. And stop feeling it.”

“Maybe the way you stop feeling it is to talk about it,” Rory suggested gently. Amy didn’t answer, and Rory sighed. He picked up one of Ashildr’s volumes from Amy’s desk. 

“You know, I can’t say much of value about what happened, except that I hated every minute of it,” he said quietly. “But I do know one thing for certain.”

“And what’s that?”

He held out the volume to Amy. “Ashildr really wanted you to read these.”

Amy took the volume from Rory’s hands, and regarded it thoughtfully. The book was older than she was, by several decades, and almost certainly Ashildr had hand-bound the book herself. 

“I’m going to make some tea,” Rory offered.

Amy looked up. “Do we have any of those sugar biscuits left?”

“There should be a couple. Want me to bring ‘em?”

“Yes, please.”

Rory got up and wandered into the kitchen. Amy sighed, put the volume on the coffee table beside her sofa, thinking. After a moment, she reached into the drawer of the table, and pulled out the small jeweler’s box that Romana had left for her. She hadn’t even looked at it since the night she returned home, the night she first put it there. Now curious, she opened the lid. 

There was only a button inside, mounted into the base. A simple red button, no larger than the tip of Amy’s finger. A hand-written note had been scrawled and folded up inside. Amy carefully unfolded the paper. 

“Blackpool button,” she read aloud. “Press when you’re angry or sad.”

Bemused, Amy took up the box again, regarding the button. “A Blackpool button? What the hell is a Blackpool button?”

Amy couldn’t imagine what pressing the button would do. However, Romana had told her, this was something Clara wanted her to have. And so she pressed it. 

A moment later, the doorbell rang. 

Frowning, Amy got up. Rory wouldn’t hear the bell, not when he was back in the kitchen and the kettle was boiling. She went to the front door and opened it. 

Standing on the porch outside, grinning up at her, were Clara and Ashildr. 

Amy’s mouth fell open in complete shock.

“What. The. Actual. FUCK,” she declared. 

“Hey, Leadworth,” Clara laughed merrily. “About time you called us.”

Amy just stood on the landing, staring incredulously at the two women, unable to speak.

”Oh, the look on your face right now,” Clara chortled. “I wish I had a camera.”

Amy’s mouth moved spasmodically, but no words came out. “But... but... you’re _dead,”_ she got out at last.

“Yes,” Clara agreed, still giggling. “Yes, I am.”

“No, no, I saw you _die,”_ Amy protested. “I saw the Time Lords remove your chronolock. I saw you take your last breath.”

“That really happened,” Clara assured her. “And I’m really still dead.”

“Then how the hell are you here?!”

“Come on, it’s time travel,” Clara cajoled her. “Since when does anything happen to us in the proper order?”

“You can blame Romana,” Ashildr decided to be more helpful. “She asked the technicians to perform a second extraction from our time streams, before we actually died. She saw how upset you were. She wanted to help you feel better.”

“But... you’re actually both dead?” Amy asked. 

“Everything you saw on Gallifrey was real,” Clara assured her. She was now quite serious, even though she was still smiling broadly. “Right now, on Gallifrey, Ashildr and I are still in the Matrix, enjoying our forever honeymoon. Romana gave us one last stolen moment, because she saw what was happening to you. Your anger was turning into hatred, a hatred that could ruin your life. She wanted you to know not everyone on Gallifrey is a monster. Some try to do the right thing. Some are even kind.”

Amy found herself blinking back tears. “God _damn_ it, Blackpool! You damn near ripped my heart out! You could have told me!”

“I couldn’t,” Clara said. “I had no idea. Romana did this all on her own.”

“She’s going to get in real trouble, too,” Ashildr added. “Apparently, unauthorized temporal extractions like ours are a big no-no. But she felt it was more important that we get to share a little time with you, to keep that hate from poisoning your heart.”

Amy was openly weeping now. “Fuck, I can’t believe this.”

“Yeah, I can’t believe your mouth,” Clara retorted playfully. “Are all Scots as vulgar as you? Or is that just you?”

“Oh, you haven’t even _begun_ to hear the bad things coming out of my mouth, believe me,” Amy vowed fiercely. 

She grabbed Clara and hugged her tightly. “You’re here,” she wept. “You’re really here.”

“I’m really here, it’s really me,” Clara answered, struggling for breath because Amy was holding her so tightly. 

Amy released Clara, and held her at arm’s length, peering intently into her face. “How long can you stay?” she asked. “How long is your stolen moment?”

“We have two weeks.”

“Two weeks? Is that, two weeks two weeks, or is that Time Lord two weeks?”

“It’s... whatever we decide to make it.” Clara gave her a conspiratorial grin. “Want to come on holiday with Ashildr and me?”

“Oh, _hell,_ yes,” Amy declared. 

“Then grab your husband, make sure the stove and the lights are off, and we can be on our way.”

Amy turned to re-enter the house, but then she just as abruptly turned back. 

“Where are we going?” she asked.

Clara’s grin got a little wider. “Tell me, Amy, how do you fancy being... a _pirate?”_

_The Doctor’s Companions will return in ‘The Pirates of Blackpool’._


End file.
